


Know You All Wrong

by Lordki



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Memory Loss, PTSD, Slow Burn, Stucky - Freeform, and bucky can't trust anyone, in which steve can't let go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 23:12:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1706009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lordki/pseuds/Lordki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes can't remember who he was and doesn't want to. Steve Rogers is desperate to have his best friend back, convinced the man he loved is still trapped somewhere in the Winter Soldier's mind. Their reunion is disastrous, but neither of them can seem to let the other go. Steve is shocked to learn that the things which make him a hero make him powerless to help the only person who matters. A story of how love makes you dig your own grave and need destroys. How saving one life can set yours aflame, and how two lost souls learn to rebuild from scratch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Know You All Wrong

    It was a lot of bullshit, leaving government work. There were endless questions and formal inquiries, FBI interviews and newspaper interviews and television interviews-- a whole month’s worth of interviews. Steve took care of most of them from his hospital bed.

    It had been a close call, his friends later told him, flanked by doctors who probably knew what they were talking about. Two bullets had ripped sizable holes in some very crucial organs and even with his accelerated healing, Steve had barely clung to life.

    Someone had fished him out of the Potomac. Steve had exactly one guess who that was. While collecting information on the remains of SHIELD, the FBI and CIA and everyone else had asked who his mystery savior had been. Steve politely dodged the question, occasionally faking exhaustion while Sam ushered the offending party out of the room. It was a decent act, for a terrible liar.

    When the doctors were finally ready to discharge him, Sam sat by with a hand over his mouth and a concerned expression creasing his brow.

    “You gonna do what I think you’re gonna do?”

    “Yeah,” Steve shrugged into a shirt, gingerly guarding the angry pink scars on his chest and stomach, “you gonna stop me?”

    “Hell no,” Sam snorted.

    And that was that.

    A few weeks later, they met with Fury and Natasha for the last time. Snide remarks were exchanged. Natasha gave Steve a folder full of information and old leads. He thumbed through it when he got home. It wasn’t very useful.

    “So he’s a ghost,” Sam said over chinese takeout that night.

    Steve was staring at a photo, taken in 1975, of a blurry figure whose frame was interrupted by a streak of silver as it disappeared into the night.

    Everything still felt disparate. Steve had to fight not to lose himself in memories of childhood. There was the man in the photo, a stranger they called the Winter Soldier, who had made a nearly successful attempt to kill him. Then there was his best friend, the man who died in the war, the little boy who had once climbed a telephone pole to set up a tin can line between their apartments.

    “What’d you say his name was?” Sam prompted when Steve was silent for almost five minutes.

    “Bucky,” Steve muttered, “his name was Bucky.”

    As if Sam hadn’t heard it before. As if it hadn’t been the first word Steve had said when the anesthesia wore off. He had said it over and over again, while Sam tried hopelessly to comfort him or at least get him to go back to sleep. Eventually he had passed out into a fever dream of Bucky’s face, scared and desperate.

    Sam pressed two fingers to the file and slid it across the kitchen table, flipping it open and turning over the pages and photos, “Barnes, James Buchanan. Impressive service record. Not much here you can’t read in a history book, though. Hell, I think I saw his biography for sale.”

    Steve managed a hollow laugh, “I’m sure that’s worth a read.”

    “He saved your life, huh?”

    “Yeah, he did. A bunch of times.”

    “No, I mean recently. Right after he shot you in the back.”

    Steve pushed his rice around in its container, “He was confused. Whatever Hydra did to him, it’s got him... scrambled.”

    “I’m not arguing, I’m just stating facts,” Sam kept his voice even, “the dude shot you. We should be careful how we approach him.”

    Steve nodded, “Assuming we can find him.”

    “Assuming we can find him,” Sam agreed.

    They lapsed into silence, poring over Bucky’s file. Name after name cropped up, like glaring red marks, searing themselves into Steve’s memory. One previous SHIELD director. A handful of Members of Congress. Howard and Maria Stark. Peggy’s husband.

    Steve closed his eyes and rubbed them aggressively. Natasha had warned him that he wouldn’t want to read this file. He released a long sigh through his nose and leaned back, trying to clear his head. How would he explain this? What could he possibly say to Bucky when they found him? What would make it seem less brutal, less personal? Nothing that he could think of.

    “Hey.”

    He looked to Sam, jaw clenched. Sam was watching him in sympathetic concern, leaning his cheek against his fist as he sprawled sideways in his chair.

    “We’ll find him,” he said gently, “it’ll work out.”

    Steve blinked at him, “Is that what you tell the people in your support group?”

    “I-- look, it’s a class, not a support group. And yeah, it sort of is,” Sam ran a hand over his short hair, “As long as he’s alive, he’s not beyond help. We find him, we can help, and we will find him.”

    Steve stared at his friend for a long moment until Sam glanced down at the table.

    “Listen,” Sam finally said, “I... I’m kinda gathering that you cared a lot about this guy--”

    “He’s my best friend.”

    “No, Steve, he’s not. He’s someone else now. Whatever they did to him, he’s a different person than the man you lost in the war.”

    “He remembered me.”

    “Yeah, he remembered you so much that he left you bleeding to death and filled with mud.”

    Steve meant for the glare he gave Sam to be a stern warning the likes of which he usually reserved for Tony Stark. But he felt a slip at the corner of his mouth and was sure his expression was more hurt than hurtful.

    “What about you?” Steve accused Sam quietly, “Have you ever owed somebody everything?”

    “Yeah,” Sam gave a bitter breath of laughter, “and he died anyway.”

    The guilt of his own words hit Steve like a punch to the gut. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, pushing Bucky’s photo away as he braced one hand on the table.

    “I’m sorry,” he murmured, “you didn’t deserve that.”

    Sam smiled and nodded and did not speak for a long time. They read the file as their food grew cold between them.

 

* * *

 

 

    Two months later they had a lead in Paris, and Steve and Sam caught a redeye from London. They slept on the plane and registered at the hotel under fake names. Natasha had taken care of the paperwork. One room, two beds and a room service meal later, they spread out their info on Steve’s bed while Sam synced his laptop to the television.

    Natasha had tracked a money trail from the remains of SHIELD to a gritty, tightly woven neighborhood well outside the city center. On a one-way side street, satellite overviews showed a second-floor flat with boarded windows. It wasn’t much to go on, but Steve was hopeful.

    “You know it could be anybody,” Sam reminded him gently, “any of Pierce’s people getting out of Dodge.”

    “I know.”

    “We could wait for visual. Whoever it is, they have to leave home sometime.”

    “If we wait, he’ll disappear,” Steve scratched at his jaw, where unchecked stubble was on its way to being a full beard. It was Natasha’s idea; she assured him few people would recognize Captain America in his street clothes and overgrown hair. To Steve, it felt like being a different person. He hated it.

    “You okay?”

    “Yeah,” he stood up, focusing on the mission, “let’s go.”

    They took the outbound Metro to a bus stop and walked from there. Sam adopted a soldier’s gait, defensive and sharp. Steve tried to hunch his shoulders. He wondered if he should even bother. Winter Soldier or not, Bucky would still recognize him at a distance. He pulled the hood of his jacket up anyway. They reached the street in question as a fine mist began to coat the night air. They rounded the corner, edging past a grimy brick apartment complex. In the street, a dark figure 20 meters away turned sharply to look at them. Steve froze.

    The street was pitch black but for the dim glare of a distant porch light. In silhouette, the figure stood with one arm extended toward the door of a building. He was directly beneath the boarded windows. His fingers, hanging still in the air, were faintly glinting.

    Steve took a step towards him and the shadow that was Bucky bolted. Without a second thought, Steve ran after him, hearing Sam’s hushed voice say, “Steve, wait, _goddamnit_ \--”

    But his warning faded quickly into the ambient sounds of the city as Steve broke into a full sprint. He darted down the crest of the hill, where the quiet street met a tangle of old buildings and tenements. A vague movement to his left caused him to swerve and he rushed into an alleyway.

    His mind registered the mistake long before his body responded. The alley was utterly empty, the rooftops deserted, and Bucky likely far elsewhere already. Steve slowed to a jog and circled back. The main street was silent as well. He stood in place, glancing around for a sign, until Sam appeared at the top of the hill.

    They were silent as they walked. Steve could feel Sam watching him. He wasn’t sure if his friend was concerned or critical. They broke into Bucky’s building without much trouble and Steve forcibly removed the doorknob from the second floor flat.

    It was a one-room hole of a place, with worn wood floors so dirty they were almost black and peeling wallpaper. There was no furniture, no stove or refrigerator, and the bathroom had only a toilet and showerhead.

    “Shit,” Sam muttered, “I hope he hasn’t been here long.”

    According to Natasha’s intel, he’d been there for two weeks. Steve crossed the groaning floorboards to a window and pried off a plywood plank. The view of the street was wide. It was a decent sniper position.

   “No sign of life,” Sam concluded after a brief perimeter sweep, “no sign of anything, actually. Just one dust-free corner. Looks like he’s been sleeping on the floor.”

    Staring hard out the window, Steve kept running through his mistakes over and over. He shouldn’t have stopped walking, alerting Bucky to their presence. He shouldn’t have followed him. He should have tried calling his name.

    “We’re done here,” he rubbed his eyes, “he won’t be back.”

    “He’ll leave the country,” Sam responded in tacit agreement.

    Steve nodded.

    “Where would he be headed next?”

    “I don’t know,” Steve turned away from the window.

    “Well, where would you go?”

    With a shrug, Steve shook his head and brushed past his friend, wandering back to the door and leaning against the frame.

    Sam pulled out a phone and called for a taxi.

 

* * *

 

 

    It took four months for them to lose hope. Steve showed Bucky’s picture to as many trustworthy strangers as they could find. They trailed him through Europe but eventually lost him in Germany. A promising lead in Serbia turned out to be a false positive. They spotted him in Bangkok, against all odds, only to lose him in a crowd. He was gone without a trace, leaving Steve with nightmares of a sunken face with hollow eyes. They stayed in Bangkok two more weeks before Sam demanded they go home. Steve was too exhausted to argue.

    At home, cleanup and construction were still causing a snarl of traffic where the SHIELD facility had stood. Steve leased a new apartment, close to Sam’s neighborhood. He checked back in with Tony Stark, who promised him there was no need for an Avengers reunion and that he could handle the backlash from SHIELD’s destruction. His PR people were on it already. Steve hung up feeling only vaguely reassured.

    Over the next few months, he helped Sam reopen a run-down veterans’ shelter. They spent most of their time and energy there, fixing old walls, painting over stains and scrubbing floors. Steve made a bit of a local news stir by asking for donations and help. Overwhelming response got the place up and running within six weeks of renovations.

    As they handed a set of keys to the volunteer directors, Steve looked out across the main hall and was surprised to find Natasha Romanoff staring back at him, a slight smile curving her lips. Hours later, once all the formalities were done, dinner served and hands shaken, the place could run smoothly for the night. Steve sought out Natasha and found her carrying on a polite conversation with an older veteran. He interrupted as gently as possible and walked with her to the humble gravel parking lot.

    “Long time no see,” he grinned, taking in her long hair, a darker red than he remembered, and tanned skin.

    “I had some work to do,” she shrugged, “Hydra put a pretty big target on my back.”

    “Nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure,” Steve caught the playful lilt in her voice.

    “Oh, I did some re-educating,” she smiled in a way that made Steve slightly uncomfortable. Her stance was tense, a little stiffer than it had been mere months before. There was zero chance she would explain why.

    They loitered by Sam’s car for a while, until Sam found them and pressured Natasha into joining them for drinks. They walked to a sufficiently seedy hole in the wall and swapped stories over beer. Natasha had been in South America, among other places, weeding out small pockets of Hydra militants.

    “Any of them give you real trouble?” Sam asked.

    “A few. They calmed down once I tested the whole ‘re-grow two heads’ thing. Or arms. I’m always fuzzy on that part.”

    She would not elaborate. Steve told her about Paris and their subsequent travels and her expression grew steadily darker. After the end of Steve’s story, she was quiet for a moment, taking a slow sip of her drink and watching the bar.

    “So you don’t know where he is,” she said slowly.

    “No,” Steve answered patiently, “or I’d be there.”

    Her eyes darted to his face, “I thought you’d have found him by now.”

    “Hell, Natasha, I’m trying.”

    “No, I mean he’s in the open,” she leaned forward, “he’s not hiding anymore.”

    “What do you mean, he’s in the open?” Sam asked before Steve could form a response.

    “He’s nesting,” Natasha said in such a casual voice that Steve felt an irrational flush of anger, “took a new name and rented a place in Boston. I’ve had tabs on him for weeks now.”

    “And you didn’t tell us?” Sam crossed his arms, “Seriously?”

    “I assumed you knew.”

    “Where in Boston?” Steve asked, heart rate picking up speed, “Is he alright?”

    Natasha hesitated for a moment before pulling out her phone and swiping her thumb furiously over the screen. Steve’s pocket buzzed.

    “I just sent you his address and a recent photo,” her voice lowered, “I gotta warn you, Steve, it’s... not what you’d expect.”

    Fingers shaking ever so slightly, Steve fished out his phone and looked at the image. He stared at it in total confusion. It was the opposite of what he’d feared. Behind him, Sam leaned over his shoulder and let out a muted, “Huh.”

    The man on the screen was almost unrecognizable compared to the gaunt figure they’d seen in Bangkok. In the sunny photo, Bucky looked healthy and normal. His hair was long, pulled back in a knot beneath a baseball cap, but his face was clean-shaven and his expression neutral. He wore a clean tee and jacket over jeans and sneakers, his left arm in a sling and covered by a compression glove. He was totally unremarkable in every way, except for being Bucky Barnes. Stranger still, he seemed to be taking a dog for a walk, an elderly German Shepherd which hung at Bucky’s heels.

    “Wh--” Steve found himself at an utter loss for words, “When was this taken?”

    "Last week,” Natasha drained her beer, “he takes the dog to the park every day unless it rains.”

    There was a confused, twisting feeling in Steve’s gut that made it hard to focus.

    “Have you...” he took a breath to steady himself, “have you, uh, talked to him?”

    “No,” she said flatly.

    He stared at the photo a minute more before standing up. Sam and Natasha followed suit.

    “I’m going,” he announced, “tomorrow.”

    “And we’re coming with you,” Sam set his jaw.

    “There’s no need. I don’t want him to feel like I’m crowding him.”

    “Yeah,” Sam raised an eyebrow slightly, “that’s what I’m afraid of too.”

    “I really don’t need backup,” Steve insisted.

    “Don’t think of it as backup,” Natasha tossed a few bills onto the bar, “think of it as emotional support, only with guns.”

    Steve opened his mouth to protest, but Sam laid a hand on his shoulder.

    “Cap, you won’t get rid of us. We’re coming.”

    Little else was said for the rest of the night, and they parted ways at the shelter. They reunited, luggage packed and tickets purchased, at 4:00 AM. The drive to the airport seemed to stretch into hours in Steve’s mind. He could not shake the clenching gut feeling that something was horribly wrong. It bothered him all morning until long after they touched down at Logan, followed him into the taxi and grew worse as a pounding rain began to fall.

 

* * *

 

 

 

    They went straight to Bucky’s neighborhood, telling the cab driver to let them out at the end of the street. They walked along the tightly-packed one-way, which was in a suburb just outside the city proper. The houses were Victorian and had been split up into multiple apartments. Teems of cars were parked on either side of the street. It looked like a middle-rent neighborhood.

    “How can he afford it?” Sam asked what Steve was thinking.

    “He works at a bar about four blocks down,” Natasha replied, “I didn’t check what he makes but it must be enough.”

    The knot in Steve’s stomach grew tighter.

    They drew close to the building where Bucky lived and Steve motioned for Sam and Natasha to hang back. To his surprise, they did. He approached the white townhouse alone, drizzling rain soaking through his sweatshirt hood.

    It all seemed wrong. _Why_ it seemed wrong he couldn’t have said, but it was definitely wrong. The place didn’t fit Bucky. It didn’t fit the Winter Soldier. A young couple walked by him, pushing a baby carriage. Pausing on the sidewalk before the white building, Steve squared his shoulders. He jogged up the granite steps and tested the front door, finding it open. That was wrong too.

    The interior staircase had new carpet and the smell of it was overwhelming. Several bicycles were tucked into a nook under the stairs. Did one of those belong to...? The thought was absurd enough that Steve ought to have laughed, but a memory of Bucky teaching him to ride a bike canceled it out.

    A door to Steve’s right was covered in paper flowers and bore a sign reading “The Dylans.” He took the stairs slowly, and they creaked under his weight. So much for any element of surprise. He reached the first floor landing and paused at the next door. White walls reflected the dim sunlight. The dark-stained door was unmarked by anything except the apartment number. Steve quickly scanned the knob and hinges for any sign of explosives. Nothing stood out.

    He took a deep breath and raised his hand to knock.

    Before his knuckles hit wood, the door swung open from the inside. Steve froze in place as a bitter chill rushed through his veins.

    There stood Bucky, perfectly still and leaning one hand on the doorknob. His metal arm was free of its sleeve and hanging by his side. His eyes were flashing anger in a way that reminded Steve of his friend but looked utterly alien on his features.

    “You again,” said Bucky.

    The stillness caused Steve’s heart to take up a faster rhythm. Bucky had been nothing but violent and evasive before. That he was confrontational now set off alarms in Steve’s head.

    “Me again,” Steve responded quietly.

    Bucky let out a sigh through his nose, head tilting slightly in frustration, “Look, I really don’t want to kill you.”

    Steve hesitated, glancing over Bucky’s sleeveless workout shirt and gym shorts. He wondered if he might still be in a coma. Movement inside the apartment caught Steve’s attention. He watched the greying German Shepherd amble into view and pause near a small kitchen table to look at him. Deciding he was harmless, it yawned and sat down.

    “Why did you run?” Steve asked, though he already knew the answer.

    Bucky awarded him a flat glare, “I’m the most wanted criminal in history.”

    “No, I mean why did you run _from me?”_

    “Because I don’t know you, and I don’t trust you.”

    The expression on Bucky’s features was severe but honest, and it drove like a knife into the space between Steve’s ribs.

    “You do know me,” he heard his own voice growing hoarse with tension, “you know me better than anyone. Bucky, listen---”

    “Let me make this clear for you,” Bucky snapped in a low, dangerous tone, “I’m not your friend. I don’t know you. I don’t want to know you. What I want is for you to leave me alone.”

    Steve had to grit his teeth to stop his jaw shaking, “No.”

    Bucky leaned back a little in exasperation, glancing away as though trying to calm himself down.

    “I know you remember me,” Steve plowed on, no longer bothering to keep the desperate edge from his voice, “That’s why you didn’t kill me in D.C., it’s why you dragged me out of the water when the helicarrier went down. Because underneath whatever Hydra did to you, you’re still in there and you remember me.”

    Bucky did not move, still staring at the doorframe.

    “We grew up together,” Steve’s breath was catching in his throat, “you taught me how to ride a bike, I always helped with your homework, we lived together. You’re not this killer. You’re the only family I have left. Your name is---”

 _“I know the name,”_ came the venomous reply as those furious eyes met Steve’s gaze, “James Buchanan Barnes, I learned everything about him, I studied him like a target. Studied you too. You want me to be him, well I’m not. He’s dead, and you’re out of your goddamned mind.”

    “Buc--”

 _“Don’t,”_ the soldier cut Steve off with a hiss, leaning threateningly forward, “if you come after me again, I will kill you, do you understand? I will _gut_ you and I won’t feel a thing.”

    Steve could do nothing but stare at the man with Bucky’s face. They watched each other a moment more before a metal hand reached out and closed the door, separating them. Steve listened to footfalls fade off into the apartment. Shocked, Steve made it down the stairs and out of the front door, pausing on the porch as the rain picked up once again. The sky was a sickly blue-grey.

    Sam and Natasha waited across the street, sharing an umbrella and chatting. They both looked up and fell silent when they saw Steve. Taking slow steps, Steve managed to steel himself as he crossed the uneven street. There was a breaking feeling somewhere just beneath his heart. He swallowed against it, thankful for the rain.

    “Well?” Sam asked when Steve ducked under the wide red umbrella.

    “Let’s go,” Steve said. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Sam’s eyes. He looked instead to Natasha, who had an awful kind of sympathy brewing in her eyes. Steve would’ve given anything at that moment not to have seen that face. He had seen that expression before, on everyone who had ever learned his life story.

    The expression that meant, _I’m so sorry for your loss._

 

* * *

 

 

    The cab ride back to the city seemed to take a hundred years. Steve said a mechanical goodbye to Sam and Natasha at the airport, feeling as though his body was on autopilot as he made his way to the front of the building. He didn’t bother looking behind him, knowing his friends were probably still following him. Drifting slowly to the street, he got into a waiting cab and gave a destination.

    A feeling of hollowness was eating slowly at his chest.

    It amazed him that he could, in fact, go through the same exact pain twice. It had always seemed to him that losing somebody was a lot like illness, in that you suffered through the virus and it either killed you or faded away. If you survived, your reward was never having to do it again. Yet here he was. Grieving twice.

    He thought back over the indigo eyes, glaring furiously at him. They were familiar, but wrong. They weren’t Bucky’s eyes.

    There had been a glimmer of his Bucky, he would swear forever, when they had fought. There must have been, or Steve would be dead now. But that was gone, somehow. Nothing about this new man had been right.

    The cab pulled into the valet drive some minutes later with Steve utterly lost in thought. He was at a hotel on the harbor. He made his way inside and reserved a room.

    “And how long will you be staying with us?” asked a pleasant-faced young woman at the desk.

    “A while. I’m not sure. At least a week.”

    He received his key and wandered into the hotel bar. He ordered a drink, though it might as well have been water, and nursed it for an hour while the hollow sensation grew cavernous around his heart.

    Several hours later, he made his way from the bar to his room. He didn’t bother turning on the lights. He fell onto the bed and lay there, staring at the dark ceiling. He needed time. He needed a plan. He closed his eyes, giving himself a wry smile. He needed any kind of assurance that he wasn’t chasing a ghost.

    “Steve.”

    He sat up slowly, pulling himself up against the pillows, “Natasha.”

    “We should talk.”

    “I really don’t think so.”

    She was silhouetted in the chair beside the closed blinds, folds of her jacket and the pale curve of her cheek outlined in light. She leaned forward and her red hair caught the evening light.

    “Where’s Sam?” muttered Steve.

    “Downstairs.”

    “Go join him. I’m not in the mood to talk.”

    “I haven’t been totally honest with you,” she said.

    Steve was sure he ought to feel something, but all he felt was exhausted. He let out a low sigh.

    “About Bucky.”

    “That’s right.”

    Steve waited. Natasha uncrossed her legs and laid her palms over her knees.

    “I told you about the scar he gave me. Sold you a nice little story about an escort mission. I let you believe that was the first time I ever saw him.”

    “It wasn’t.”

    “No, it wasn’t. What I’m going to tell you, only two living people know.”

    There was a stretching silence as Natasha apparently considered how to tell her story. Steve allowed her the time she needed. Already, a gulf was forming in their mutual trust. It was nearly tangible in the air between them.

    “The program that made the Winter Soldier...” Natasha took a deep breath, “also made me. I was just a child when they took me in. They gave me everything their perfect soldier needed. Strength. Speed. Coldness. The Winter Soldier was part of it. He trained me.”

    The silence took on a sharpness this time, as Steve slid off the bed and began to pace. A tension in his shoulders began to build a headache behind his eyes.

    “I’m only telling you this,” Natasha carried on after the pause became unbearable, “because he wasn’t Sergeant Barnes then either. He was a soldier, yes, but he was distant, and he was ruthless. That’s all.”

    “And you didn’t think this was relevant months ago?” Steve rounded on her.

   She gave a small shrug, “No. But I’ll tell you one thing, I’m one of only two people he ever let live. The other is you.”

    “What?”

    “My escort wasn’t his target,” she said evenly, “I was. And he didn’t kill me. Left me bleeding on the side of the road instead. And he saved your life.”

    “So, what, you’re saying Bucky is still in there? We knew that.”

    “No,” she stood up, crossing the room and standing near him with a comforting hand on his arm, “I’m not. I’m saying the Winter Soldier is not as bad as he seems.”

    Steve’s headache intensified and it was as though a lifeline had snapped. In a burst of motion, he grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her into the wall, pinning her in place.

 _“Enough!”_ he shouted, “Enough doublespeak, Natasha, tell me the truth! Is Bucky still alive?”

    “Steve--”

    “Please,” he let her go, taking a step back, “God, please...”

    He fell back onto the bed burying his face in his hands. Natasha was still for a long while, as Steve rubbed his eyes and tried to soothe his pounding head. Eventually she took a few light steps forward and sat beside him, her hands pulling his away from his eyes and holding them tightly. He turned to look at her, finding in the dark nothing but sympathy etched across her face.

    “You gotta let him go, Steve,” she said softly.

    “I can’t,” he whispered in reply, “I know this sounds horrible... it was almost easier when I knew for certain. I knew he was Bucky Barnes, my best friend and not some stranger, not some murderer. That he died in nineteen-forty-four when I couldn’t reach him and that I...”

    He let it go, and Natasha glanced down.

    “Maybe he did,” she murmured.

    “Yeah,” Steve gave a weak laugh, “maybe he did. Maybe we both did.”

    “Don’t do this to yourself,” she shook his hands a little for emphasis, “It’s over.”

    “I made him a promise. I owe him everything. You of all people should understand.”

    She was quiet for a time, before finally letting go of his hands and withdrawing her own, fingers trailing the edges of her sleeves in distracted thought.

    “Okay,” she said, “but I’m staying. You’re stuck with me. Sam too.”

    “Thanks.”

    They sat together in silence until she could convince him to sleep.


End file.
